


Throne

by SaintHeretical



Series: Reylo Discography [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Azor Ahai, Crossover, F/M, Game of Thrones AU, Prophecies, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6916021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintHeretical/pseuds/SaintHeretical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"According to prophecy, Azor Ahai will be reborn to wake dragons from stone and reforge the great sword Lightbringer that defeated the darkness those thousands of years ago"</p><p>Benjen Targaryen has clawed his way to the Iron Throne in a blaze of salt and ash, with a Red Priest at his left and a dragon at his right. The Priest claims he's Azor Ahai, the Prince that was Promised, but to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms he's just a usurper and a heretic, and they're hell bent on teaching him the ultimate lesson. </p><p>Enter "No One." </p><p>Inspired by the song "Throne" from the official Kylo Ren Spotify playlist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throne

For the first time in many moons, the fighting outside the castle walls falls silent.

Prince, _King,_ Benjen Targaryen, the first of his name, shrinks down in his throne, body swathed protectively in his voluminous black robe. The battle has been raging in King’s Landing so long, each night has fed into the next until he barely knows when to sleep and when to pace.

It started just under a year ago on the back of Ren, his massive black dragon. He had flown into the capital flanked by massive columns of blazing wildfire harnessed by the Red Priest at his side. The initial sacking of city had been quick, almost effortless really. His mother’s forces were ill-prepared, and really how could they not have been? No one had seen a dragon in hundreds of years. No one even knew it was a possibility.

Benjen has come to the realisation that everything is possible, especially with the aid of the Lord of Light. He had claimed his grandfather’s throne swiftly, disposing of his mother’s guards like they were mere pawns on a chessboard. Despite his speedy attack, the woman herself was long gone from the Red Keep, no doubt spirited away by some interested party or another. The Martells, most likely, or the Tyrells, though he also wouldn’t put it past the Starks to have orchestrated the safe extraction of their favourite daughter-in-law.

The rebellion had emerged almost as soon as he had set his ass to the throne. Whether it was street thugs, wealthy landowners, or even a gang of youths bent on destruction, nary a night went by without some sort of uprising or incident of destruction making itself known. Every citizen of the city mourned for their banished Queen, and every citizen hated him for enterprising her deposition.

Benjen had initially participated the quashing of these miniature rebellions until it finally became too tedious. Now he sits on his throne or paces in his chambers, Ren locked in the rebuilt Dragonpit, waiting for the day when someone finally proves worthy enough to crash through the gates and challenge him in his own castle.

That’s why it’s so strange tonight. The quiet, that is. He tilts his head, straining to hear whatever is going on outside the stone walls of the Red Keep.

Just the rustling wind and the braying of animals. No screams, no yelling, no clashing of armour. Benjen leans back on the fused iron of the throne and catches his breath, the skittish thoughts in his head finally calming at the idea of a good night’s sleep.

Then suddenly he hears it, or maybe _feels_ it. Nothing. But not the same nothing as before. The absence of any noise, any scent, any glimpse of movement, yet the constant awareness that there’s something lingering just outside of his grasp.

Standing from his throne, he calls out, “Show yourself!”

His demand echoes against the stark walls of the throne room, sounding more and more paranoid and foolish with each successive utterance. He rubs his face in his hand, mashing his palm against his eyes in an attempt to calm himself down.

He pulls his hands back from his face and is greeted by a figure who has soundlessly appeared at the foot of the Iron Throne. He judges it to be female from the slightness of the body, but any other clues are hidden beneath the intruder’s thick slate grey cloak, edged in silk and tassels.

He squints, his heart rate rising. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“I’m a visitor,” the figure replies. The voice is firm and most definitely female. “I have come here to see you.”

“And who sent you? No, wait, let me guess.” He squints for comedic effect, one finger resting on the side of his face. “You’re wrapped in the clothing of Dorne, but you wear the Stark colours. There’s a flower in your lapel and a fish pinned to your shawl...”

“Everyone,” she answers. “I have been summoned by the delegates from all seven kingdoms. They _all_ want your head."

“Everyone sent you,” he muses, then counters, “And who does that make you?”

She pulls back her hood, revealing brilliant green eyes and a round, childlike face topped with a halo of blonde curls.  “I am No One.”

Despite his regal bearing and titles, Benjen snorts loudly, his mouth curling into a cruel smirk. “I see. And why have so many delegates sent you for my head? Why do you represent so many when you are No One?”

The blonde squares her shoulders. “The entire kingdoms know of your wicked deeds, False Prince.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling me now?” He shakes his head. “I have to admit, I enjoyed ‘The Dragon Scourge’ a lot more.”

“You can add these names as well,” she notes, counting them off on her fingers. “Heretic. Murderer. Sorcerer. Traitor. Deserter. Your accuser has officially charged you with these sins and more, all from your unholy alliance with the Red Priest and his false god. You have turned your back on your oaths and on the Seven, and they have handed you their judgement.”

He scoffs, chin held high. “And who makes these charges?”

Unsheathing her sabre, she brandishes the shining blade and points it in his direction. “These charges originate from her Royal Highness, Queen Leia Targaryen, first of her name, Rightful Ruler of Westeros , Queen of the Andals and Blood of the Dragon. Your _mother._ ”

Scoffing, he leans back on his throne. “Of course. The pathetic mewling of an old woman. Tell my mother that, if she wants to be respected as a legitimate ruler, she needs to stop sending _little girls_ to fight her battles for her!”

“Little girls, you say?” She drops her gaze to the floor and rubs at her face with her free hand. When she raises her head back up to look at the prince, she meets him with the face of a wrinkled old man, bearded and craggy.

“Aha.” The king grins. “A Faceless Man. I have to admit, this will be a first for me. I have never killed one of your kind before.”

“And you never will.”

The grizzled old man with the body of a young woman moves quickly, darting up the stairs two at a time. Benjen barely has enough time to pull his massive ruby-encrusted broadsword from the scabbard concealed within the throne before she’s on him, hacking in his direction with precision and barely concealed rage. He blocks her attacks, awkwardly at first when he’s half hunched over his throne, but soon he gains the upper hand, his superior strength and height forcing his assailant to retreat back down the steps of the throne as he hammers an offensive against her sabre.

The Faceless Man stumbles at the foot of the throne, giving Benjen enough time to raise his hand and swear, “May R’hllor guide my hands and clear my sight.”

The assassin gasps in shock at when the prince’s eyes flash red for a moment, then fade back to their regular brown. She barely has enough time to recover from her alarm before he’s suddenly upon her again. His strokes become faster, his speed almost inhumanly quick, and he wields the broadsword with one hand as if it weighs no more than a stick. She’s fast of course, faster than most, but for every ten blows she avoids, he lands one blade to blade that almost floors her with its intensity.

“The God of Death is no match for the Lord of Light,” he grunts as he presses his massive blade against her sabre. “You can try your hardest, but in the end he will prevail. _I_ will prevail.”

She groans under the force of it, her arms trembling with the effort. Summoning every last ounce of her strength, she grits her teeth and spits, “N-n-not today.”

Succumbing to the force of his blow, she lets her body go limp as she drops to the floor and rolls to the side. He stumbles, the momentum of his strike pitching him forward, and she takes the opportunity to right herself and dart back several paces. Chest heaving, she extends her sabre in challenge.

His eyes flash red, and he whirls his broadsword in lazy loops as he paces before her like an animal stalking its prey. “Do you fear me?” he calls out.

“No,” she replies frankly. “Why would I fear a lost pup with no teeth?”

He roars and swings his sword in one large arc as he charges towards her, teeth bared. She turns to run, but he’s already there in a puff of acrid black smoke, long arm outstretched.

“Let’s see who you really are, _No One,”_ He hisses, and presses the glowing palm of his hand against her forehead. “For the Night is dark and full of terrors.”

Heat flashes across her face and she jumps back, clawing at her cheeks. The air smells of smoke and singed hair, and when she rubs her face with her hands, her fingers come back stained with soot.

“No,” she whispers, backing away as he stalks towards her like a cat. “No, no, no, no...” She scrambles to pull the hood of her shawl over her face, but he’s quicker, snatching the free end of the fabric to wipe her face clean while his other arm pins her against his robed chest.

She’s squirming with all of her might, teeth gnashing against the rubbing cloth on her face, but it’s no use. He pulls away the fabric and exposes her, the _real_ her, in the flickering light of the braziers.

“Rheyna?” he breathes, eyes wide with shock. “Rheyna Sand?”

Her long lashed brown eyes stare back at him. Gone is the beard, the wrinkles, the chubby cheeks, every mask that she’s presented him with so far. Instead she faces him, high cheekbones, tanned skin and  freckles, just as he remembers her, except so much more.

“I don’t know who that is,” she spits back, but her jaw quivers.

“Rheyna,” he repeats. “Stop. You can’t fool me.”

“I don’t know that name. I am No One.”

“ _Rheyna_ ,” he pleads, voice cracking.

She squirms harder in his arms until he releases her. Immediately, she brandishes her sabre and waves it again in his direction. “This changes nothing. I have been bound to your demise and must therefore abide by my plan.” Her eye twitches. “The God of Death demands it.”

“My _mother_ demands it,” he spits. “The God of Death may allow it. Where do you fit in all of this, Rheyna?”

Shaking her head at the sound of her old name, she repeats, “I am No One, and must abide by the plan.”

“You can’t, you _know_ you can’t.” He drops his sword to the ground with a clatter and raises his arms in a mock sign of surrender. “We were friends once, you and I.”

“Friends?” she scoffs. Sheathing her sword, she raises her chin in the air and counters, “We were never friends. You were a rich prince with too much time and money on your hands, and I was a little street rat who didn’t know what was good for her. Don’t pretend that our sparring was anything more than a distraction.”

He recoils, his face twisted with shock and a tinge of hurt. “But what brought you to this? What sent you all the way to Braavos to surrender yourself? You had such promise for greatness in Dorne, even from your young age and meagre beginnings.”

She frowns and crosses her arms across her chest. “You did. You were the reason I left. You are the reason I’m standing here today with a sword at my side and an order in my pocket.”

Grinning despite the tension in the air, he runs his fingers though his hair. “Really? I didn’t know I had that much of an impact on you.”

“An impact? On me?” she snaps. Her fingers twitch. “You’ve had an impact for sure. An impact on the Seven Kingdoms that will be felt for generations to come.”

“Oh please.” He turns from her and starts walking back up the precarious flight of stairs to the Iron Throne. “History will praise me as the ruler who saved all Seven Kingdoms from themselves, who united them in strength against the Others.”

She darts up after him, taking two steps for each one of his long strides. “Or consider this; you may alternatively be the ruler that finally destroys us for good, sacrifices the kingdoms to a false god for the sake of your own skin.” She catches the flapping end of his robe with her hand and pulls, halting him. “The one who lets the kingdom burn.”

He whirls around, face warped with annoyance, but his expression quickly melts when he sees her there at knee height a few steps below him, his cloak twisted in her fist. “I like my version better.”

“The Seven Kingdoms will never stand for your rule,” she breathes, her fingers digging into the plush black cloth. “Step down now, and I can guarantee you a merciful death.”

He laughs. “I never would have guessed that one day my death would be delivered to me by the only scrap of light in my otherwise dark and dreary youth.”

“Oh, yes, your life was very hard.” Rheyna rolls her eyes. “Very difficult to spend your formative years sipping iced wine under a Dornish pavilion while the servants tended to your every need.”

“I was referring to what came after, actually.”

“Oh yes.” She rubs the plush cloth of his robe between her robes. “Is it strange to be in black again?”

His eyes narrow and he tugs the hem from her hands with a sharp yank. “It’s not strange because it comes of my own choice, not thrust upon me by a mother who is ashamed of my existence, who would rather end our family’s legacy than give me the throne.”

She frowns and darts up the steps until she’s just a foot beneath him. “Of course, I see. _Deserter._ ”

He catches her snarling face in his leather bound grip, and gently pulls it towards his. “Hush,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over her lips. “Aren’t you tired of this fighting? We both know you’re not going to kill me.”

She swats away his hand but doesn’t move to back up. “I’ll never tire of fighting injustice. I’ll never tire of fighting you. Oathbreaker. Heretic. Deserter.”

“But just imagine,” he murmurs, eyes locked with hers.  “Imagine a future where I rule the kingdoms whole and prosperous with _you_ at my side. We could be amazing together, stronger than we ever were apart.”

He hears her breath catch in her throat.

“Admit it,” he whispers, the words grazing delicately like butterflies over her skin. “It’s what you’ve always desired, Rheyna.”

“You have no idea what I desire,” she spits back through clenched teeth as her pulse pounds in her throat.  “Maybe I want you dead.”

He laughs again, a dark chuckle that reverberates throughout the deserted hall.

“Send me to the Starks then. Send me to the ravenous wolves that want to devour me whole, and I will come back stronger than ever, leading them by a muzzle. Surrender me to the Dornish, and the sun will yield to my shining moon. Give me to the Tyrells, and I will twist their thorns to make my crown. No one can stand against me.”

He backs up the last couple steps and sits back down on the Iron Throne, looking more like a regal king than Rheyna would like to admit. Frowning, she trails him, perching on the step beneath.

“You’re awfully confident for a man for has been trapped inside his own castle for almost a year.” She gestures around the room. “Tell me, what makes you so sure of your success outside of these walls? What makes you arrogant enough to believe that you will be a better ruler than your own mother?”

“Ah yes.” Benjen leans back, his head resting precariously close to the polished tip of an ancient sword. “How can I explain it?” The Red Priest has seen it in the flames. I am Azor Ahai, the Prince that was Promised. The only man who can save the world from the endless winter that quickly approaches. Prophecies have foretold that I will rule the Seven Kingdoms with ash and smoke, and I am telling you now: you can either join me, or _get out of my way_.”

“Azor Ahai?” The name rolls off of her tongue like a curse, a whisper said only behind closed doors. “You’re insane. You’ve gone mad like your grandfather.”

Still, even though her mind is screaming at her to either kill him or run away, she stays rooted in place, drawn to the charismatic glint in his eye. He’s not lying; her training can tell her that much. He truly believes every word he’s said, whether he’s been brainwashed into belief or actually knows it in his mind. And he must feel something for her, even if it is some sort of twisted nostalgic loyalty, because he hasn’t killed her yet.

And she hasn’t killed him.

“He’s seen you in the flames too,” Benjen continues. “He’s seen both of us, ruling together. That’s why you’ve been brought here Rheyna, to be with me. Where you belong.”

“That can’t be,” she murmurs. “That’s not possible.”

“Join me,” he breathes, leaning forward, his eyes flashing with conviction or madness. “Join me and I’ll _make_ it possible.”

He lets her take the final step, the one that crashes their lips together in a mess of lust and passion and a significant amount of confusion. She fists her hands in his black robes, holding on for dear life as he clutches her to him, their bodies perched precariously atop the Iron Throne.  

Maybe it was the promises. Maybe it was the allure of power. Maybe it was nostalgia. For whatever reason, Rheyna can’t seem to quench the hunger in her belly for _him_ , for every part of him. It’s crept up on her, predatory and selfish, preying on every strand of weakness and loneliness and curiosity she’s ever felt, and then left her here at his feet.

She threads a hand into his hair and tugs, relishing the feeling of him groaning against her lips, hardening against her thigh, his fingers digging into her hips so hard she’s sure he’ll leave marks.  

“Your madness must be contagious,” she mutters against him and he smiles, his dour face splitting into a crooked grin that makes him look ten years younger and significantly less evil.

“Maybe you’re just seeing the light,” he counters, pulling her down for another searing kiss.

It’s a battle of equals; her grace balancing his strength, her smooth caresses tempering his rough grasps.  He grips her waist and pulls her forward until she’s straddling him, her knees resting on the fused swords of centuries past as she rocks up against him.

She divests herself of her cloak, releasing the clasp and letting it flutter to the ground below them as Benjen runs his shaking fingers along the ivory buttons that fasten her tunic. A rush of lust and madness rips through her and she trails her fingers along the prince’s neck until she reaches his own collar. The clasp is more complex than hers, and her hands have suddenly become very clammy so she struggles, cursing at the silver hooks until he reaches up and yanks the cloak, tearing it at the neck.

“That’s better,” he whispers and she stares at him wide eyed.

“You didn’t need to- _mfph!”_   He swallows the rest of her protest against his lips, his nimble fingers making quick work of the line of buttons at her chest until he can finally peel the roughspun garment off of her smooth skin. Letting out a little moan of satisfaction, he traces her collarbone with his fingertips, then drags them down to ghost around the perimeter of her pert breast. She whimpers with pleasure, her own fingers clutching at the laces of his leather jerkin.

It’s all too much, too many layers separating his burning skin from hers. She manages to untangle the laces and expose his chest but it’s still too _much_ , and she feels like she’s getting incinerated from the inside out as she rakes her fingers against his scarred muscles.

“Please Benjen,” she pants, grinding against him at an increasingly frantic pace. “I need-“

With one arm wrapped around her waist, he supports her just long enough for him to tug down his doeskin pants, exposing his swollen erection to the frigid air. He hisses, wincing at the cold, and Rheyna laughs despite the intimacy of the moment.

“I thought you wouldn’t get cold with the blood of the dragon flowing through your veins,” she teases as she pulls down her own suede hose.

 His growl transforms into a moan of pleasure when she lowers her wet core against him, rubbing against the length of his member with one thrust of her hips. “I won’t be cold for long,” he breathes, and then she’s above him, pausing to adjust him against her entrance before she slowly lowers onto his lap, every inch of delicious friction more tantalizing than the last.

She sets the pace, a steadily rolling rhythm guided by his hands on her hips. It’s not the most comfortable place to make love, but Rheyna manages to steady herself with one hand on his chest and another clutching to the hilt of an ancient blade. Benjen’s already close; she can tell by the way he’s flinching and chewing on his lip in a desperate attempt to hold back, but she’s feeling particularly merciless today. Trusting her weight to his hands, she runs her fingers against her breasts, twisting and tweaking the swollen nipples until they’re flush with blood. Then she moves down to her pussy, circling her folds before she wraps her small fingers around where they’re joined, where he’s stretched her wide and wet.

The feeling of her fingers right _there_ sends him tumbling over the edge, and he grips her down onto his hips as he spasms, sending spurts of warmth into her core. His groan of pleasure echoes through the empty hall, bouncing against the flickering braziers and weathered stones and for a second he feels complete, whole, and content.

After a minute of bliss, he comes back to his senses. “You didn’t-“ he mumbles, still dazed.

She smiles. “Oh, I’m not done yet.”

Hands still on her hips, he watches, enraptured, as she runs her middle finger down her chest, down her flushed abdomen, and down to where he’s still inside her. She lets out a little sigh of contentment when she strokes her clit, already swollen with arousal, her other hand tracing the taut perimeter of her entrance.

It’s only a few moments before she comes, her face twisted in silent ecstasy above him. The feeling of her clenching and fluttering around him is the best thing he’s ever felt, even better than riding his dragon, and he clings to her when she slumps against him, sweaty and spent.     

He pulls back just to look at her, and her beauty almost overwhelms him, her sun kissed skin is so luminous in the firelight. “Will you stay with me?” he rasps. “You feel it now as well, don’t you? The string of fate that ties us inexorably together. The choice must be clear.”

She slowly opens her eyes and bites her swollen bottom lip. “I-I-I...”

The rest of her response is swallowed by a guttural moan of pain that suddenly rips through her body like a siren. She seizes up on him, her limbs going rigid at her side, and Benjen watches wide-eyed with horror as she tumbles off of his lap and down the stairs, falling in a pile of mussed clothes and naked skin at the foot of the Red Priest.

“You,” Benjen breathes, yanking up his pants with his shaking hands. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I do only as the Lord of Light commands me to,” the wiry man replies, magic flowing from his extended left hand while his right plays with the pointed beard at his chin. “I saw both of you in the flames, atop that throne. I saw this day.”

“I know you did! You said we would rule together.” Benjen’s voice cracks. He wants to run down the stairs and throttle his mentor with his bare hands, but the last scrap of rationality within him tells him to maintain his control. He’s shaking just the same, confused and hurt and still reeling from the amazing affection bestowed on him only moments earlier.

 “I know I said that,” the older man says. “And I still believe that to be an accurate interpretation. However...”

He twists his hand and Rheyna screams, her body convulsing at his feet. Benjen sees red, jumping up from the throne to race down the steps two at a time. He’s almost at the other man when the Red Priest gives another twist of his wrist, and Benjen feels like he’s run up against a wall.

 “Don’t try to fight your destiny,” the priest hisses. “This day has been foretold in the flames since the dawn of time.”

“Why are you doing this!?” Benjen screams. He feels helpless, like he’s about to faint or vomit at any second, and he absolutely can’t stand it.

Whirling around, he grabs his abandoned broadsword from the ground and brandishes it against his former ally. “Stop this at once,” he commands, voice only shaking slightly. “She has done nothing to deserve this. Desist your torture immediately, I command you.”

The Red Priest just cocks his head to the side and sends another tendril of white-hot pain up Rheyna’s spine. She lets out a bone clenching scream, her fingers digging into her arms for some semblance of comfort as blood begins to drip from her nose.

“This is only the beginning, Benjen Targaryen,” he cackles. “She will be in immeasurable pain until you do what needs to be done. What the prophecy foretold.”

“The prophecy said that we would be together!” Benjen pleads. “That’s what you told me! That she would rule at my side!”

“You foolish child.” Shaking his head, the Red Priest clenches his hand into a fist and Rheyna groans in agony as her skin erupts in angry pink welts all over her body. Benjen lets out another guttural roar and hacks at the air around the priest with his sword, but it is as impenetrable as the stone walls surrounding the Red Keep.

“Her eyes are failing now,” the older man says nonchalantly, as if he were describing a particularly bland piece of art. “Soon her skin will begin to peel from her muscles and her body will start rejecting her organs. Would you like to stay until the end, my Prince, until nothing is left but a pile of bones and ash for you to worship? It may take a couple of hours until the process is completely finished, but I promise to keep her awake and aware for as long as possible.”

Rheyna stares up at him, her warm brown eyes flooding with blood as her veins begin to rupture. “B-benjen,” she stutters. “Benjen, please...”

He knows what she wants, what _both_ of them want, but it seems too terrible to fathom. “I can’t,” Benjen sobs. “I can’t do it.”

She chokes out another moan of pain as the skin of her lips begins to split, marring the surface with deep cracks that ooze blood. The lips that just caressed his, now tortured and destroyed beyond repair, the skin that he stroked, raw and destroyed.

“Benjen...” she pleads, her voice barely recognizable. “Ben. _Please._ ”

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life. Taking a deep breath, he lets out a soul-wrenching scream of pain and drives his sword into Rheyna’s mottled chest with one fell stroke. The room shakes, or the _world_ shakes, he’s not quite sure, and the room is littered with chunks of stone and dust as the reverberations thrum through the walls.

He slumps to his knees, ready to catch her body as it falls forward into his arms. “I-I-I’m so sorry,” he whimpers as tears and soot blur his eyes. Her eyes are locked with his, but the life has already drained from them, their brown depths flat and cold.

“You,” he breathes. Laying her body against the cold stone floor, he slowly stares up at the wrinkled face of the Red Priest, his face blazing with anger. “Why would you do this?”

The priest raises a hand to silence him. “Because it is almost too late. Listen to the winds, Benjen Targaryen. _Listen.”_

Benjen is about to throttle the other man where he stands until he hears it. The crunching of a thousand feet marching across the snow. The slow groaning, howling, bone chilling moans that can only mean one thing.

_They’re here._

He jumps to his feet, his mind already calling out to Ren, calling the great beast to himself. Even from the pits, the sound of snapping chains and the roar of the dragon is palpable over the growing hysteria swirling around the castle. Fingers clenching, ready for battle, he’s gone two steps before the priest calls him back.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?”

Benjen gazes down at Rheyna, pure, beautiful, strong Rheyna, and the broadsword protruding brutally from her breast. Clenching his teeth, he leans over and, with two shaking hands, pulls the sword from it’s resting place.

It’s as if the sun itself has manifested in the keep as Benjen wields the massive sword, now blessed with a blade of pure, unquenchable flame. The heat of the fire licks at his face, but he feels no discomfort, only unadulterated rage. He strokes Rheyna’s cheek one last time, his face firm and determined.

“Your death will not be in vain,” he whispers. “I promise you.”

He doesn’t even look back at the Red Priest as he storms out of the hall to the castle gates, to the back of his dragon, to the battle that has been brewing for centuries upon centuries.

To his destiny.  


End file.
